One Who Wanders (abiona) wrote,
One Who Wanders

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and her buttons all undone

Lately I have had dreams that end with me shrieking as I quake out of sleep. I had to chase "her" to reclaim "our" memories, I had to find her and end it. In a darkened room with strange blue light, she lept out at me with face greatly distorted in a dimly lit mute cry, hands clawing out for me.

The next night found a group of us in the sanctuary of a church ... it had almond-colored linoleum and light brown, very uptight pews which were closely spaced. We were all huddled on the floor in between the pews as the rage of a dragon sent items and debris showering all around us. In the back where the choir should have risen was instead a massive wall of rock, so upright it was impossible to climb. Up at the top, he flailed. I looked at him, feeling that I somehow had to stop this.

He was there, wearing black, but after registering his presence my mind was quickly off to other things. My attention had been drawn to an old container on the floor. I lept over the pew in front of him and picked up the canister that had fallen so distinctly, turning it over in my hands. The label was once ivory, but had rusted and turned mostly brown. I noticed that whatever was inside was eating its way through the tin, and eating its way through my fingers as well. I dropped it and pressed my digits together as they dissolved, looking up the mountain.

The night after that found me preparing for a war. We ran down a spiral staircase to take up our positions on the battlefield, earthen embankments reinforced with overturned cars and vans. I've fought here before, I realized. I had been on this left flank, and somehow I had survived, though I could no longer remember how I had been so lucky.

There was a bandaid on my finger that could not stay put. I wondered if the wound underneath was healed enough to withstand "outside" if I let the bandage fall off. I was not sure. I knew that there was time before the battle commenced, so I decided to run home as speedily as I could. There, I took it off, and my finger seemed fine ... I took the rest of my clothes off as well. I ran back to the battlefield entirely in the nude, not seeming to mind at all. Nobody else noticed my lack of clothing.

I was too late to take up the position I had held before, on the side. Instead I was placed in the front, and I ran to kneel behind a large gray van - my only defense. Will I live through this time? Every other van began to grind backwards, peeling the sod away from the soil as they went and creating a fence somewhat like a set of pawns in a game of chess. I pressed myself against the metal and grass ... I knew not what my fate would be.


These are issues we all deal with and lots of folks write about. I am thinking of and posting about these questions as well, because 1.) this is my journal, after all, and 2.) hopefully I will be able to bring clarity to my writing that others cannot.

I have been plagued with uncertainty concerning my ... "purpose," if you will. I firmly believe living life is purpose enough, yet, I wonder if what I have done thus far is ... adequate, or if it may perhaps be preventing me from achieving more later on. Is it right to be satisfied with a trivial life? Am I satisfied?

People I trust have placed great faith in me; these folks have told me that I could, if I so chose, be a person who makes change for people in the world. I wonder if this is true? Am I really the kind of person who is meant to make a difference? But then, why am I repulsed by the thought of taking up other people's causes? My temper rises when other people ask me to write for their cause even though I have not been convinced of its value, and I insist that they find their own words. Why is it that the standard path of an "exemplary" individual - high academic honors, civic service, etc. - tends to be quite off-putting to me?

Is youth the time of change-making? I worry that I have already I lost my chance, though I don't know what I'd do if I had whatever opportunity I unwittingly passed by. Or is it that I am waiting for age-given wisdom ... but what's to guarantee that I will attain something like that?

What am I doing? I fear becoming entrenched in limited world of academia, and I've realized that, perhaps, my reasons for wanting to further my education may be based upon misguided interpretations of my passions. I love to write ... thus assignments and projects give me an easy starting point. I love the past, reading, and that widening sensation of discovery and preservation. I like being able to consider myself a wealth of information.

But I have no interest in publishing reports to buff up my C.V. I do not want to teach people. I do not care about that! I would much rather use the word "storyteller" than "doctorate," though I suppose the latter gives you more bragging rights.

I want to see new cities, outside of the Midwest. I want to move away to a place where I can open my door and step out into a new start, a different view, different picture opportunities.

I am worried that I am letting myself be pushed along convenient paths once again.

I realize that I am not the best nor the brightest in layout design, though I feel my sense of responsibility must surely make up for that. I worry that my grasp of programs is basic at best. If I continue with graphic design/editor/layout/whatever, I feel that it must be for a publication I have interest in ... gaming magazines, anime magazines, etc. I'd like it to be a job with a paycheck that enables me to engage in other activities ... writing, drawing, etc.

Will anybody remember me if I die? Will it have mattered that I lived or died? How small is my life? I like to envision a more expansive "something."


Clarity is fine, but it appears that I am going around in circles.
Tags: dream writing, is your heart in the right place?

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